


Our last Christmas

by Asauna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asauna/pseuds/Asauna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been away far too long for John to handle. Will his surprise trip home happen in time, or will he miss his chance to be the one to save John?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our last Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Sherlock drabble, and one depressing one at that. XD Sorry..

**Suicide Warning.**

He was so lost and so very, very lonely. His mind was stuck on replay, always going over the time that he had spent being happy. All of his life things had proven difficult, whether it was during his academic career with friends, or with family at home. The war was the only real thing that had brought him ease in a sense, along with many new problems, but that was why he was there partly. It was his job to help sort them out and fix what he could. It was then that he had a grip on who he was and the reality that had shaped his world.

 

When he had lost that with the gunshot wound, he had once more lost everything. Well, that is, until he'd been brought to Sherlock Holmes. That man was amazing in every sense of the word. In John's eyes, he was the most imperfect perfect human being he had ever encountered. The Consulting Detective had been one of a kind and the only person to ever truly make John feel... Useful. 

 

Oh, Sherlock had those days when he acted like a child, and John wondered how much of a mother he appeared to be. Then there were those days that Sherlock just left him speechless. A weak smile touched his lips as he thought over a previous case, eyes growing just a little more colder than they had been a moment earlier. Ache raked through him as it always seemed to happen, doing what he could to ignore it. But when you had tried to ignore this feeling for a year and it still hadn't gone away, how could one continue living like any other person?

 

Everyone had tried to help him, but they couldn't. They couldn't make the nightmares go away. They couldn't make the memories fade. They couldn't make the pain stop. They just couldn't fill the gap that Sherlock had left in his wake. He hated this. He hated it so much. Every day he felt himself slipping more and more, wondering if it would just be best to go meet with Sherlock.

 

Then he'd begun to contemplate different ways to achieve that goal. Do the same thing as the other, perhaps? No, there was always a chance that he'd merely break something and be stuck in the hospital for months. Pills? He certainly got enough of those from his therapist. Perhaps. Gun would have been the best choice, but Lestrade had taken the weapon off of him at the first glimpse of his downward spiral and had yet to return it. So, pills it was. 

 

He'd thought about it a few times, but in the back of his mind was that useless hope that Sherlock was just pretending and would come back. But as the seasons changed, that voice of reason died down, falling silent. So now, it was Christmas Eve, and John sat in his usual chair while staring out of the window as he watched the snow fall. God it was beautiful, but he felt nothing towards it. In the back of his mind, he could hear and even see Sherlock walking around gracefully, playing his violin as he had done plenty of times, merely with music that fit this time of the year. 

 

And with every passing moment, a few more slender white objects slipped from his hand and into his mouth, washed down by the whiskey he was drinking straight from the bottle. Oh, he knew what he was doing. He knew the choice he'd made. he was so very tired of it all; He was tired of the painful nights. He was so tired of crying out for a man that had died before him. There had been more than one occasion that he'd dreamt Sherlock was back. On those nights, he ran into the man's room which was as neat as could be and found everything left alone. And it was on those nights he found solace in Sherlock's bed, laying there until sleep claimed him or he found it useless to try and wish Sherlock back to him. 

 

It wasn't long until the bottle of pills sitting on his nightstand had been emptied and he could feel a sheen of cold sweat touching his skin. It felt as if his heart was going 100 miles a minute and his vision was going out of it. This went on for a little while, though John tried to ignore the aches that tore through. He felt as if he would be sick a short while later, and in fact had, all over himself. Everything was blurred and he couldn't think straight. His fingers trembled and he felt his breathing become shorter and harder to take in. 

 

At 2:36 AM, Doctor John Watson of 221B Baker Street, had taken his last breath. Splayed back in his chair, having taken off his vomit-stained shirt at one point and a broken whiskey bottle upon the ground, he sat there as a true epitome of just how fragile the human existence could be. And all for a man who he believed to be dead, that'd he'd only known for a year and a half.

 

-

 

It was about 8:05 AM when the door downstairs had opened up, cautious eyes looking up the all too familiar staircase. With a slow, unsteady breath, the man began to wander up the wooden frame. God how he'd missed each creak beneath his weight and the way that this aging building smelled.

 

He was nervous though, that much evident. He didn't really know what to do or what he would say. Yes, he would tell the truth and he had been expecting a hard hit to the jaw, but he wasn't even supposed to be here! He should have been in Venezuela at this point, taking out one of the last men of Moriarty's web. But he.. He had heard what Mycroft had been saying, finally. He'd stopped lying to himself about John being alright. So perhaps now, at least, it would be alright for him to allow the doctor to know that he was alright albeit a little more thin than the last time they'd seen one another.

 

Sherlock was never one for timing it seemed, for when he'd stepped inside and smelled that nasty, acidic smell, he'd raised his eyes to see John's head bowed and body slouched, the empty pill bottle laying on its side on the table beside him. "John." The ghost of a man breathed urgently, dropping the parcel he was holding, quickly rushing over to him.

 

Shame John never got to see what was wrapped in the deep red box with green ribbons, which was something of a promise. Something small, actually. A ring. Not a wedding ring, but a promise and reminder that when Sherlock would go back to what he was doing for the last year, he would come back. It was a way for John to know that what would have been this day had been real, had he lived long enough.

 

Two weeks later, Sherlock Holmes, Worlds first Consulting Detective was announced dead at 221B Baker Street, sitting in the chair opposite the one John had been sitting in on Christmas. 

_  
At least they were together now._


End file.
